


Aftershock

by PepperPrints



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: M/M, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 17:10:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5214050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PepperPrints/pseuds/PepperPrints
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his encounter with Zoom, Barry wakes to find Harrison Wells guarding his hospital bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aftershock

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who wanted to write shameless PWP before the next episode came out and made the scenario impossible? This guy.
> 
> This fic also contains a trans headcanon, as forewarning, if that sort of thing isn't your cup of tea. Also warnings for age differences, and Earth-2 Harrison acting like a rude asshole, as he has been shown to do. 
> 
> Spoilers for up to 02x06. Thank you to restlesslikeme here at ao3 for encouraging me and editing me!

He wanted to be alone.

 

Barry didn’t mean for it to come off coldly, but Caitlin and Cisco seemed stung. Caitlin ran tests, confirmed what he already knew, and then there was nothing else to do but wait. There was optimism in Caitlin’s voice; she insisted that his healing could surely compensate -- but then came the unfortunate honesty that she couldn’t say for certain; he had never been this badly hurt before. There were promises, both spoken and unspoken, and Barry felt his stomach twist with the very real chance that there could be no coming back from this.

 

It wasn’t about his legs, or even his speed. It was about protecting the people he cared about while a monster was loose in their city. He could lose his powers; he didn’t care -- but he couldn’t lose his family. His friends. It was too much to even muster, and the excuse of needing to rest made it easy to ask for privacy.

 

He wanted to be alone, but he woke up to Dr. Harrison Wells sitting beside his bed.

 

How long had he been here? Long enough to pass out in his chair, elbow propped on the armrest and his head held in his palm. He hadn’t changed his clothes -- not that it was easy to tell. Whether or not this man was or wasn’t Eobard Thawne, he held the same inclination to wear nothing but black.

 

The thought churned unpleasantly in his gut, and it brought a bitter taste to Barry’s mouth. He wasn’t Thawne. There were arguments that spoke to that: Eobard Thawne hated him, Eobard Thawne wanted him dead. This man, this Harrison Wells from another world, saved his life and wanted his help.

 

But that wasn’t entirely the truth. Not really. Thawne had saved him too, over and over; either by his own actions or his voice in Barry’s ear. It would be easy to demonize what he had known, to label it as something dark and deranged, but there had been something genuine in that as well.

 

Barry glanced at the gun that was leaned up against the side of Wells’ chair, ready to be snatched up by eager hands.

 

Was that why he was here?

 

“What are you doing?” Barry’s voice cracked with the question, rusted by the sleep lingering on him still. Wells snapped awake at the sound of it, eyes widening with a sudden shock, before his expression muted again.

 

Familiar eyes.

 

“You’re awake,” Wells noted, rubbing his hand over his face. There was a superficial glance of his surroundings and then he focused on Barry again. “I thought you’d sleep until morning.”

 

Barry said nothing, pressing his palms to the mattress and shuffling himself upright. The motion was followed by Wells’ eyes, and his hand wandered to recollect his glasses. “I’m assuming that you--” he began, and Barry wasn’t sure he could bear it being spoken.

 

“Still can’t feel anything,” Barry finished, more sharply than he meant, and he saw the corners of Wells’ mouth dip. “No.”

 

Wells nodded slightly, just barely, and his tongue skimmed out against his lower lip. Barry wished he would speak, but he held his tongue, out of what he probably assumed was courtesy. The silence sat uneasily on Barry’s shoulders, so he forced himself to break it.

 

“What’s that for?” he asked, nodding his head towards the rifle at Wells’ side. “Zoom?”

 

Wells made an affirmative sound, rearranging himself in his chair. “Not that it would have done much good,” he replied self-deprecatingly, his tone gradually deepening towards something more and more bitter. “We already proved how effective my tactics are against Zoom.”

 

Barry watched for a moment, following as Wells idly adjusted the rifle in his lap, seeming more keen to keep his hands busy than anything else. “Did you think he was going to come after me?” he asked, more quietly now. “Even like this?”

 

“There’s a possibility,” Wells said simply. “Zoom could become territorial. Even with your speed removed, he may be aware of your potential to recover, and want you dead before that happens.”

 

Which was fair, except… “I don’t see you watching Jay’s bed,” Barry observed. “He’s just as likely to bounce back as I am.”  A weak grin pulled at his mouth. “Maybe more.”

 

Wells’ smile was a crooked one, and he placed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. “I think you know the reason why already.”

 

Maybe. Maybe not. Barry wasn’t so sure.

 

“You should go back to sleep,” Wells continued, before Barry could pry. “You need your rest.”

 

“I don’t think I can,” Barry honestly replied. Now that he was awake, his mind was working too fast, and he doubted his thoughts would let him sleep.

 

Wells shrugged to that, and he rose from his seat. “Then we could get you out of bed,” he offered. “I could bring--”

 

“No.”

 

Barry blurted it with more desperation than he meant to show. Embarrassed by his own admission, he slumped back against his pillows, and he heaved a breath. “No,” he repeated, more quietly. “I don’t… feel up to it.”

 

Wells looked ready to pry, his jaw working, but he simply nodded instead, and stalked away. For a moment, Barry wondered if he was going to ignore his denial altogether, or maybe just leave him -- but soon enough he returned, and something familiar was tucked underneath his arm.

 

Wells spread the table out over his hospital bed, and he placed the chessboard on top of it.

 

“I assume you play,” he said bluntly, dragging his chair closer, and setting up the board without waiting for Barry’s reply.

 

Silently, Barry stared. Familiar hands set the pieces up: white and black. How many games did he play with Eobard Thawne?

_We’re all pawns to you_.

 

Barry watched Wells’ face, and he began to wonder if Eobard Thawne ever sat by his hospital bed, watching Barry sleep all those nights he spent in a coma.

 

Wells caught him staring, and his posture seemed to bristle. “What?” he asked flatly, and he pushed the board closer. “White moves first.”

 

Barry held his tongue, and he shifted his first pawn forward.

 

He lost the first two games, and by the third, he was getting a little more cautious. Barry wasn’t oblivious; he was self aware enough of his own failings. He moved too fast; he needed to take more time to think. Analyse. Reconsider. It was time spent in silence, nothing but the click of pieces against the board, and the idle beep of the machinery monitoring Barry’s vitals.

 

“Am I a better player than him,” Wells asked abruptly, snatching up one of Barry’s castles. “My doppelganger?”

 

Barry winced, and when he met Wells’ gaze, the man shrugged. “That’s what it is, isn’t it?” he continued. “That’s why you’re acting so strangely.”

 

“Yeah,” Barry muttered, nudging his knight forward with his knuckle. “It has nothing to do with the crisis of losing my legs.”

 

Wells made a thoughtful sound out of the corner of his mouth. “There’s worse fates,” Wells replied, and the tone wasn’t an optimistic one. It wasn’t meant as a reassuring or inspiring thought; it was spoken more bitterly than that, as if from experience -- a parent fearing for the life of their child.

 

“Yeah, worse,” Barry agreed. “Like what Zoom might do to people without the Flash to protect them?”

 

Wells’ expression tightened, and his shoulders worked in a sigh. Somehow, it seemed like he was swallowing something down, rather than speaking it.

 

“You’re not helpless, Barry,” Wells countered, and Barry wished he could believe him. He scoffed, without realizing, and Wells frowned at him from across the board.

 

Sighing, Wells removed his glasses from his face. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, then turned sharp eyes onto the game before him. “The king can’t move very far,” he said, “but it’s still the most important piece on the board.”

 

Barry paused, raising his head to find Wells staring back at him. He smiled, and it was different: not something sharp in one corner of his mouth, but full and almost fond.

 

“Checkmate,” Wells added, placing his knight forward with a firm click. “And I think that’s enough abuse for one night.”

 

Despite himself, Barry laughed self deprecatingly, shaking his head side to side. “Yeah, I think so,” he sighed defeatedly, and he let Wells clear the board away.

 

“You should actually sleep now,” Wells added, packing the pieces up. “You need it.”

 

Barry winced slightly. Something about the advice -- the concern -- felt jagged somehow.

 

“So I can heal and face Zoom again?” Barry concluded. “Do you already have another plan?”

 

There was an expression on Wells’ face that Barry didn’t know how to place. His brow tightened, and his eyes seemed sharp behind the thin lenses of his glasses.

 

“You’re not a pawn, Barry,” Wells told him, his voice colder than Barry anticipated.

 

“I know that,” Barry replied bluntly. “I wasn’t sure you did.”

 

Wells reacted sharply. He snatched the board up, and for a moment Barry was certain he’d say something cold. Instead, he left the room, and Barry was left wondering what nerve he struck.

 

Barry heard him coming back before he saw him, and the amount of noise already signaled what he dreaded. Barry pushed himself up, and his stomach dropped when Wells returned.

 

He brought the wheelchair -- his wheelchair -- guiding it right up to the side of Barry’s bed.

 

“Get in.”

 

Barry’s skin felt cold, and his fingers tightened into the sheets beneath him. He didn’t speak, didn’t move, and Wells tone turned harsher as a response.

 

“Get in,” he repeated, louder now, and it seemed to shock Barry’s mouth into working again.

 

“I won’t,” he said sharply.

 

“You need to,” Wells argued coldly and Barry’s grip tightened. He remembered Cisco, and how Wells snapped at him, shoving Dr. Light’s helmet towards him until he listened--

 

“I said I won’t,” Barry insisted.

 

“Why?” Wells asked, pulling the glasses from his face and dropping them against the bedside table. “Because of who it belonged to?”

 

“No--,” Barry started, then stopped. Was that lying? Maybe. It was only half the truth.

 

“Then why?” Wells repeated harshly, one hand snatching Barry’s arm. “What scares you?”

 

What?

 

“What do you think?” Barry snapped, jerking his arm back, but he couldn’t move himself out of Wells’ reach. “There’s a monster out there and I can’t stop him!”

 

There was a huff in Wells’ voice; something like a scoff, but far too cold to be humorous. “No, no…” he sighed lowly. “I don’t mean Zoom.”

 

Barry paused, his eyes narrowing. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked cautiously, and Wells snorted.

 

“You know exactly what I mean,” he told him shortly. “You told me you faced your worst nightmare, but you didn’t. You’re still scared of him. Of being like him.”

 

Eobard Thawne.

 

Barry jerked where he sat, his heart pounding in his chest. How could he? He didn’t even know, and now he thought he could just… Barry felt dizzy, short of breath, and anger made his skin run hot. “I’m not scared of him!” Barry blurted, and the words stumbled on their way out.

 

“Yes, you are,” Wells countered coldly. “If you were so scared of Zoom hurting the people you loved, you’d fight. You wouldn’t mope, because you know that wouldn’t help anyone. That isn’t who you are, Barry Allen, but here you are! Because you can’t bear getting that close to a dead man!”

 

“Stop it,” Barry said coldly, but Wells didn’t listen, especially when it was so quietly spoken.

 

Wells came closer, and Barry felt cornered. There was nowhere he could move, and no space to gain as Wells loomed in close to him.

 

“That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?” he asked, sharp and accusatory. “For so long, you wanted to be like him. Now, here’s your chance! And you’re horrified!”

 

“Stop it!” Barry snapped. “Stop it! You don’t know anything about me!”

 

“I know you’re a hero, not a coward!” Wells hissed back, and his face was too close. “So why are you scared of a ghost?”

 

Barry didn’t have an answer. He sunk back against the bed, and he stared up at Wells weakly. He was right; he was scared. Whenever he thought about that chair his skin felt clammy; it seemed more like a cage than an aid.

 

More proof that Thawne was right. That Barry needed him. Thawne was gone, and here they were: helpless and lost and lower than they had ever been.

 

“I can’t,” he said weakly.

 

“Yes, you can,” Wells told him, and his tone had softened. It wasn’t gentle, exactly; there was still something firm and burning underneath, but his voice wasn’t harsh. “You’re not alone.”

 

Barry said nothing, catching his lower lip beneath his teeth.

 

He wasn’t alone. That was the truth. Harrison Wells was here, right in front of him, and closer than he’d ever been before...

 

Heaving a deep breath, Barry nodded his head. Slowly, his hands uncurled from the bedsheets and he let himself reach for Wells instead. He braced his arms around Wells’ shoulders, and felt his body tense when Wells slid his arm underneath his legs.

 

There was nothing. Contact came and it may as well have been hands on another person entirely. Barry tried to smother the hope down; he knew nothing would change so fast, but it lingered and festered.

 

Wells lifted him easily enough, moving him the short distance from the bed to the chair. Barry sat and he felt oddly off center, but stayed pliant as Wells adjusted his legs for him. It was more attentive than Barry anticipated, and the gesture made his chest tight.

 

“Now, that wasn’t so bad,” Wells said, “was it?”

 

Wells moved as if to withdraw, and Barry didn’t let him. Before he could slip away, he grabbed for his arm. Wells balked, looking ready to jerk out of his hold again, but he noticeably reconsidered.

 

That was something Barry had noticed: how much physical contact made this man bristle.

 

“Thank you,” Barry said.

 

“For shouting at you?” Wells replied dryly, and Barry chuckled quietly.

 

“No, for… well. Yeah, I guess. A little bit?” Barry smiled weakly despite himself. “I needed to be shouted at, I think.”

 

Wells scoffed somewhat, saying nothing about it, and Barry’s stomach twisted. How often was this sort of scene reversed? How many times did he look down at Dr. Wells when he sat in this chair?

 

But that wasn’t Harrison Wells -- and neither was this man; not really.

 

“Thank you for believing in me,” he finished. Again. Like you always do.

 

He wasn’t the same, but somehow he was. They were all in different shades, so close and so far away at the same time.

 

It was so hard to look at, and at the same time, hard to tear his eyes from.

 

“Barry,” Wells began slowly. “You should let go of me.”

 

Barry didn’t. If anything, he squeezed his hand down tighter.

 

“Barry,” Wells repeated, quieter this time, and Barry tried to lean forward.

 

“Why don’t you like being touched?” Barry asked, his voice hushed, and his other hand raised, grasping Wells by both arms now. Wells didn’t resist, though his jaw moved, and Barry wondered what he kept hidden behind his teeth.

 

“Tell me?” Barry quieted his request, and something in the tone of his voice seemed to urge Wells closer.

 

Close enough for Barry to move one hand to the front of his shirt instead. Close enough to dig his fingers into and pull -- pressing their mouths together and letting himself sigh.

 

Wells tensed all at once, and his voice was weaker than Barry had ever heard before. His whole body seemed to stutter, as if he didn’t know which way he wanted to move. “Barry--” he began, and Barry felt himself soften.

 

“Please?” he asked desperately. “Please, just…”

 

He couldn’t finish, and thankfully Wells didn’t need him to. He made a low sound in his throat, something quiet and raw, and he parted his lips when Barry traced them with his tongue. It was only the barest thing, the smallest amount of access, and Barry took it for all it was worth. Barry pulled Wells in with his hands, pressing his tongue into that shallow opening of his mouth. There was something there: a taste he couldn’t put a word to, so he pushed deeper to try to find a name for it.

 

He couldn’t. It didn’t matter. Nothing else seemed to, really, except for this. Barry moaned, letting Wells swallow the sound of it, and wiry hands set themselves on Barry’s shoulders.

 

“Barry,” Wells breathed against his mouth, wet lips moving in a rough murmur. “Let me…”

 

Wells withdrew, and Barry’s instinct was to protest. He didn’t want to stop. He had waited so long for…

 

Him? Not him. Another version of him -- except not at all. A parody of him. Someone else wearing his face.

 

Wells dropped down, settling in front of Barry on his knees, and suddenly all trail of thought was stilled. There was no sensation when Wells nudged his thighs further apart, but when he reached between his legs…

 

Barry let out a noise, surprising himself with how desperate he sounded from just having Wells work his cock free. Instinct had him cover his mouth, trying to regain some sort of restraint, and he bit down on a whine when Wells squeezed down.

 

“It’s okay.” The softer encouragement seemed strange now. This Wells was sharper with his tongue and edgy with his moods, and this was the gentlest he had sounded yet. “No one else is here; no one else can hear you. It’s okay.”

 

It felt so natural to listen to him again. To have that voice in his ear and succumb to it. He followed along, let his hand drop, and he found a grip on Wells’ shoulder instead. He wanted to find his own voice, to ask Wells to keep talking -- but he got something else instead.

 

Wells bent his head, and Barry had only the briefest moment to anticipate before warm lips spread around the head of his cock. He gasped out, arching forward where he sat, and his hands twisted into tight fistfuls of Wells’ jacket. It was so much -- too much -- and not being able to move towards it felt like a torture all in itself.

 

“Oh-- please -- yes,” Barry babbled uselessly, and he couldn’t even bring himself to be embarrassed about how he ran his mouth. “Thank you -- please?”

 

Wells chuckled lowly, and the vibration of it teased all the way through Barry’s skin. He took Barry’s encouragement, sucking and tracing the tip of him with his tongue. It was all slow, deliberate motions, and altogether too much to be endured. Barry whined, one hand uselessly pulling at Wells’ clothes, while the other dared to bury into the short, soft strands of his hair. Barry pushed there, just a little, and he was answered by Wells taking him deeper, and deeper -- until…

 

Barry sunk back into the chair, squirming as much as his body would allow. Every inch of him was pressed into the warm heat of Wells’ mouth, and he could barely breathe. His chest heaved, and every exhale carried the edge of a whine along with it.

 

It should have been enough -- it was more than enough -- but Barry pushed his hand against Wells’ shoulder, urging him back.

 

“Wait,” he rasped weakly. “Wait. Please.”

 

Wells didn’t persist. He withdrew, and the noise from his throat sounded something like reluctance. Wells peered up at him, eyes clear and lips damp, and Barry suddenly felt heat pool in his gut.

 

“I want… you to feel good too,” Barry explained, feeling oddly foolish after the words left his lips. “Not just me.”

 

Wells laughed faintly, just barely, and his gaze wandered somewhere else. “Might not be a good idea,” he replied.

 

If it was supposed to be dissuading, it had entirely the opposite effect. Barry leaned forward, grasping for him with unsteady hands.

 

“Please?” he asked. “I want to.”

 

“Barry…”

 

“I really want to,” he emphasized firmly, “Please?”

 

Barry felt an odd amount of unease. Wells seemed to roll the idea over in his mind, and after some clear debate, he rose back onto his feet. Barry’s heartbeat picked up, and skipped when Wells circled his wrist in his hand.

 

After unfastening his belt, Wells guided his hand. He pressed Barry’s palm against his collarbone, above his beating heart, then dragged it down slowly. Gradually, lower and lower, Wells moved him, until he was urging Barry’s hand beneath his waistband. Barry leaned forward, reaching beneath thin layers of clothing, and he found the explanation for his reluctance.

 

“Oh,” Barry breathed faintly, bending his head forward so it rested against Well’s chest. “Oh…”

 

“Mh,” Wells intoned, his hand curling into Barry’s hair. “Yes?”

 

“Yes,” Barry agreed vaguely, delighting in how he felt Wells’ fingers tighten in his hair when he moved his hand. “Yes, please -- just…”

 

Wells sighed and the sound of it shivered through Barry's arms. There was something in his face, when Barry dared to look up at him: an expression he’d never seen him wear before. It was tense somehow, betraying something held in check -- but that barrier seemed to weaken as Barry ran his fingers gently across slick skin. His eyelids fluttered, and his lips parted for an unsteady exhale when Barry tried to urge him closer.

 

“Good?” Barry asked, shaky and over eager. Wells hummed, making a distant sound that was distracted but undeniably affirmative. The encouragement settled warmly in Barry’s chest, and made him bolder. “Can I…”

 

Putting it to words seemed too shameless for Barry to muster. He flustered and he felt naive for it, but Wells seemed to take some pity on him. “Yes,” was a sigh against Barry’s hair, and he thankfully took care of what Barry lacked coordination to do himself. Wells shifted back, needing to toe out of his shoes before he eased his pants down and off. Barry wanted the chance to look at him -- really look at him -- but Wells was already climbing up into the chair, and Barry couldn’t bring himself to feel disappointed.

 

“Shouldn’t I…” Barry began, and Wells hushed his concern before it even began. Wells reached his hand between them, finding a steadying grip around the base of Barry’s cock, and his other arm braced against the back of the chair.

 

“It’s all right,” Wells assured him quietly, and his tone was soft again, bringing Barry back to focus. His words were still so steadying, centering, but his voice did waver when he shifted, warm and wet against Barry’s skin. Then, moving himself in Barry’s lap and taking him inside: “Barry--”

 

For a moment, Barry lost himself. He let out a shuddering sound, burying his face against Wells’ neck as his body shuddered. The response was a moan, and the slide of slender fingers through his hair. Wells spoke, murmuring his name and vague praise. Barry groaned faintly and reached for him, fingers scrambling over his back for purchase. He felt unable to muster much else, especially when Wells began to rock against him, rolling his hips to take him deeper, deeper, until he was sitting flush against him, pressed tight in Barry’s lap.

 

“There you go,” Well sighed, the words carrying an uncharacteristic tremble, and Barry could only whine in the back of his throat.

 

His hands held tight bunches of Wells’ jacket, clinging there as Wells moved in his lap. There was little else Barry could do but hold on, pulling with his hands and gasping out when he couldn’t hold his tongue.

 

Wells found a rhythm and Barry succumbed to it. His hips rolled, steady but undeniably eager, and Barry was swept up in him. It was something strange: how he absolutely could not move, but still it felt like Wells was only giving, rather than taking.

 

Barry muffled his moan against Wells’ throat, his breaths sharp and his skin hot. All at once, Barry realized how little of this he could endure. Embarrassment cut through sensation, muting something so clear with a stab of something shameful. “I can’t,” he admitted weakly, feeling juvenile and foolish for it. His hands shook when he moved them, trying to find a hold on Wells’ shoulders. “I can’t -- you feel really good…”

 

Wells let out a shaky exhale, the sound of it raw and rough, before it faded into something milder as he chuckled. Somehow, it wasn’t the reaction Barry expected, and worn hands framed his face. Wells urged his head back, urging Barry back from where he hid so their eyes could meet.

 

Barry wondered if he’d ever adjust to his eyes; the sharpness he carried in them, even now.

 

“Ssh,” Wells intoned, low and murmuring against his mouth. “Breathe, Barry -- breathe…”

 

Wells found Barry’s wrist, circling it and guiding it down against his chest instead. “Feel my chest. Feel my heartbeat--”

 

Distantly, somehow, this felt familiar. The words; the tone of voice and the man who said them… but Barry was too far gone to identify it.

 

Or maybe it was something willfully buried.

 

Barry bit down on a whine, trying to do as he was told, and Wells’ lips touched against his temple. “Dr. Wells--” he managed thickly, stumbling on the sound of it -- stubborn formality sticking out of equal parts unconscious habit and persistent admiration. “Please?”

 

Whatever he was asking for felt too vague, too undefined, but Wells answered it nonetheless.

 

“It’s okay,” Wells assured him lowly, fingers curling back into Barry’s hair. “I’m with you. I’m here.”

 

Barry sunk forward, and his voice broke. He tried to keep himself contained as he came, burying his moan against Wells’ shoulder, but he was still left shaking. His hands grasped fitfully at Wells’ jacket, trying to grasp on as if it would stop him from falling apart. That didn’t work so well, but what did steady him, what did help level out his shuddering breaths, was the steady slide of Wells’ hands moving over his arched back.

 

“Barry,” Wells sighed, his voice half of a laugh, and Barry felt dizzied by it.

 

Gradually, his shuddering died down to the odd jerk where his skin proved too sensitive for even the idle motions of Wells’ hands moving over him. Barry whined softly, and the sound dragged out into something louder when Wells began to move again.

 

“Ah -- easy,” Wells murmured lowly, and when Barry shook, too overstimulated to be touched, his voice changed to a sigh. “I know -- just let me…”

 

One hand stayed firm on Barry’s shoulder, bracing and steady, and the other reached down between them. Wells made a noise, something low and drawn out, and Barry felt an entirely different sort of ache thud inside his chest.

 

He wanted to do it. A nervous urge came over him to offer it, to try to gently nudge aside Wells’ hand and do it for him, but Barry knew what a mess that would be. He could barely sit still without shaking, and his fingers were already twitching uselessly against Wells’ shoulders. He wouldn’t be capable enough to give him this -- but he needed him to know; needed to show somehow. So, he circled Wells’ forearm instead, and rubbed there with earnest enthusiasm.

 

“I want you to,” Barry managed, his voice half mumbled by his own self-consciousness. Luckily, Wells’ response was a soft moan, and he arched forward in Barry’s lap.

 

“Yes,” Wells agreed, his voice sounding foggy and distant as he idly rocked against him -- back against Barry, up towards his own hand, over and over -- and then Barry found the sense of mind to act on one impulsive indulgence. His hands cupped Wells’ face, and when the way he shook couldn’t be mistaken for anything else, Barry made sure he was kissed when he came.

 

The sacrifice was losing the full sound of Wells’ moan, but the vibration of it thrummed down Barry’s throat, and that was somehow equally overwhelming. Wells sunk against him, shivering but steadier than Barry had been, and his shallow breath felt warm against his skin. Barry set arms around him, allowed himself to squeeze tight, and he hid a smile against Wells’ shoulder.

 

Time felt muddied; hard to gauge. They sat together until their breathing leveled out, and Barry actually found himself half drifting towards unconsciousness. Barry wasn’t sure how long it had been before Wells at last rose up from his lap and moved away from him.

 

“Ah,” Barry murmured faintly, vaguely trying to reach out for him. His limbs felt heavy in the aftermath, as if weighed down by the rush of what shook through him. “Wait. What are you…?”

 

Barry let himself trail off, watching as Wells dragged his pants back up over his hips. The gesture sat uneasily on Barry’s shoulders, making him doubt, and again Wells’ smile only reached one corner of his mouth.

 

“I’m going to put you back into bed,” he finished, which wasn’t entirely the question Barry was implying. “Which seems counterproductive considering how much effort it took to get you out of it. But, here we are.”

 

Barry paused, and he glanced Wells over, top to bottom, suddenly unsure of what he was looking at. As quickly as his warmth came, it bled away again -- though when he reached to pick Barry up, he was just as attentive as before.

 

Barry wasn’t entirely sure what he was supposed to think.

 

When Wells placed him back in bed, Barry reached out before he could withdraw entirely. His hand caught him by the front of his shirt, keeping him close. Wells stilled, seeming somehow surprised, and Barry tightened his hold.

 

“Are you going to stay?” he asked, and he didn’t mean for it to come off as needy as it must have sounded.

 

Wells hesitated, his lips pressing together, and when the silence dragged, Barry spoke again. “I’ll try to sleep,” he offered, as if bartering, “I might actually get some rest if you stay.”

 

That earned a scoff, and Wells’ tone was dry. “We already discussed that I’m hardly equipped to be guarding your bedside,” he reminded, and Barry shook his head.

 

“No, it’s not about that. Not really,” he admitted, though he wondered if saying as much was a mistake. He paused, rolling it over in his mind, before he continued. “It’s just -- better. With you here.”

 

Everything was. All of this. This entire place and the work they were doing together--

 

Wells frowned. When he straightened up, Barry let his hand fall away from him, and Wells smoothed out the wrinkle Barry left in his shirt.

 

“It isn’t as if I have anywhere else to go,” Wells reasoned fairly, and Barry couldn’t help his smile.

 

“Thank you,” he said softly, already feeling exhaustion catching up with him. “Dr. Wells.”

 

Wells’ mouth moved, just in the one corner, and he nodded his head. Barry watched him rearrange himself, taking his seat back at his chair, and placing his rifle back within reach. “It’s tricky,” he said loftily, as he leaned his head against his palm. “Isn’t it?”

 

“Mh?” Barry intoned. Sleep was edging in, and it made his response foggy. “What is?”

 

“Fate.”

 

Barry blinked a few times. Where had he heard that? It felt familiar somehow. The words; this bed; the steady beep of hospital machinery…

 

“Never mind,” Wells sighed, and Barry’s tired mind took the dismissal too well; too eager for rest to stay hung up on the oddity of it all. “Get some rest, Barry.”

 

“‘Kay,” Barry mumbled, letting his eyes drift shut with a heavy exhale. “‘Night, Dr. Wells.”

 

The response was a sigh, and tone that seemed to carry an edge of a laugh.

 

“Good night, Flash.”


End file.
